CHAPTER 6 – Emilia
The cabin feels different now that Sienna and Camila are gone.
Their teasing still echoes in my head, and no matter how much I try to push it away, I can’t.
I groan, pressing my fingers against my temples. They’re ridiculous.
This isn’t a romance novel.
It’s real life.
And the man lying half-dead on my couch isn’t some brooding hero waiting to be tamed.
He’s a problem.
A dangerous, mysterious, possibly criminal problem.
And yet, here I am, standing by the stove, making soup, like I don’t have a half-naked stranger in my home.
Like I don’t notice the way the firelight flickers over his sharp jawline, the way his muscles shift even in sleep.
I inhale sharply and turn back to the pot, stirring harder than necessary. Focus.
The broth swirls, the steam rising in curling wisps, but I barely notice. My thoughts are tangled, an irritating mess of Camila’s teasing and my own traitorous awareness of the man in my cabin.
I shouldn’t be looking at him. Shouldn’t be noticing the way the blanket has slipped lower, revealing more of his chest—bronzed skin marred with old scars, each one telling a story I have no right to wonder about.
I grip the spoon tighter.
This is not a problem. He is not a problem.
Except, deep down, I know that’s a lie.
Because if he weren’t a problem, I wouldn’t be standing here, struggling to steady my own heartbeat.
But then—a sound.
I turn my head just as Rafe pushes himself up on the couch.
His movements are slow but deliberate, like a man testing his strength, gauging just how much of his power has been stolen by his injuries.
His fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of the couch, a barely-there movement, but I see it. The flex of muscle beneath the bandages, the slow inhale as he adjusts to the pain lacing through his body.
I should look away.
But I don’t.
Instead, my gaze lingers—on the dark stubble along his jaw, the way his throat moves as he swallows, the sharp cut of his cheekbones in the dim light.
Then, suddenly—his eyes snap to mine.
My breath catches.
It’s like being caught in the act, like he knows exactly what I was doing.
Like he can feel the shift in the air too.
For a moment, neither of us speak.
I should say something.
Something normal, something neutral, something that doesn’t acknowledge the way my stomach twists uncomfortably just looking at him.
Instead, what comes out is—
"You’re not supposed to be moving."
He exhales, leaning back slightly, resting his weight on one arm.
"Not supposed to be here either," he murmurs, his voice lower, rougher than before. "But here we are."
I frown. "You’re impossible."
"Been told worse."
Of course he has.
I sigh, turning back to the stove. "You need to eat."
I hear the rustle of fabric, the slight shift of his body as he adjusts on the couch.
"You cooking for me now?"
I glance over my shoulder, rolling my eyes. "Don’t flatter yourself. You’ll pass out again if you don’t get something in your system."
There’s a pause.
I turn back to the pot, stirring the broth, pretending that the heat flushing across my chest is from the stove and not the way he’s watching me.
Then
"Didn’t know you cared, sweetheart."
My entire body locks up.
The word hangs between us, wrapping around my ribcage, squeezing too tight.
It’s nothing. Just a word. A nickname.
But the way he says it—low and lazy, like he’s testing the weight of it on his tongue—sends something molten through my bloodstream.
Sweetheart.
I swallow, my throat suddenly tight, dry, betraying me.
I inhale sharply, forcing my hands to keep moving, stirring, anything but acknowledging the way my pulse stutters in my chest.
I hate that my body reacts before my brain can tell it not to.
I should tell him to shut up. To stop looking at me like that.
Instead, all I manage is a weak, "Don’t call me that."
And he hears it—the hesitation, the crack in my voice.
Which means I’m screwed because when I glance over my shoulder, he’s watching me with that same lazy, amused smirk.
Like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Like he’s waiting for me to react.
Heat rushes up my spine, spreads down my limbs, makes me want to throw the damn soup at him just to get that look off his face.
Behind me, I hear the quiet rumble of his chuckle.
I set the bowls on the table, keeping my movements deliberate, careful, pretending that I’m not hyper-aware of his presence.
"Can you walk?" I ask, crossing my arms.
Rafe watches me for a beat too long before swinging his legs over the side of the couch.
The moment he tries to stand, his jaw clenches, his body stiffening.
He’s too proud to show it, but I see it—the tightening of his muscles, the slight tremor in his hands.
I step forward without thinking. "You shouldn’t—"
"I’ve got it."
Stubborn ass.
I roll my eyes, but I don’t step back.
And when he moves again, his balance wavers.
Before I can stop myself, my hands are on his arms, steadying him.
The moment my fingers brush his skin, everything shifts.
His body is fever-warm beneath my touch, solid muscle wrapped in bruises and bandages.
His gaze drops—to where my hands are gripping his arms.
For a second, all I can hear is the sound of our breathing. The fire crackling behind us. The faint rustle of fabric as he leans ever so slightly into my touch.
I don’t move.
And neither does he.
Until—
"Didn’t know you liked touching me, sweetheart."
The words are a low murmur, teasing, but there’s something else in his tone too. Something heavier.
I snap my hands back like I’ve been burned.
"You’re insufferable."
"And you’re a terrible liar."
My jaw clenches. "Sit down and eat your damn food before I throw it out the window."
Rafe chuckles—deep, low, and far too amused.
But he listens.
For now.
We eat in silence, the only sound in the cabin the quiet clink of spoons against bowls, the crackling of the fireplace.
I try to focus on my food, but I can feel his gaze on me—measuring, calculating, waiting.
I take another bite, trying not to let my hands shake as I lift the spoon to my mouth.
He’s watching me.
Not in an obvious way. Not in a way that anyone else would notice.
But I do.
His eyes flick to my lips as I swallow. Lower, just for a second, before meeting my gaze again.
My stomach tightens.
I force myself to keep eating, to ignore the heat curling low in my belly, but I can still feel him there—watching, waiting.
Like he’s seeing something I don’t want him to see.
Then
"More?"
I look up, confused.
He nods toward my half-empty bowl.
"You barely ate anything."
I frown. "I’m fine."
His head tilts slightly, his gaze dropping to my throat, then lower, his expression unreadable.
"Sweetheart," he says again, but this time—
It’s different.
It’s lower, rougher.
Possessive.
Like a secret meant for just us.
I inhale sharply, my spoon stilling in my bowl.
The fire crackles. The wind howls outside. But all I can hear is my own heartbeat pounding too fast in my ears.
His voice is different this time—lower, rougher. Like he’s saying it not just to tease me, but to stake some kind of invisible claim.
Like he’s testing me.
Daring me to react.
My throat goes dry.
I should push back. I should roll my eyes, tell him to shut up, pretend like I don’t feel the heat curling beneath my skin.
But for some reason, I can’t.
For some reason, all I can do is sit there, heart pounding, fingers clenched around my spoon.
His smirk deepens, slow and knowing.
He already has his answer.
I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.
But suddenly, I feel warm all over.
My lips part, a protest forming—I told you not to—
But then I see his eyes.
The way they have darkened.
The way they devour me without even touching me.
The air between us crackles, charged with something I don’t know how to name.
A shiver rolls down my spine, pooling low in my stomach.
My fingers curl around the edge of the table.
I should say something.
I should stop this before it starts.
But all I can do is sit there, my pulse hammering, hunger twisting deep inside me—sharp and unbearable.
Not for food.
For him.
His lips curl slightly, like he knows.
Like he’s waiting.
I grip my spoon tighter, looking away.
He chuckles, low and rough.
And I swear, it vibrates all the way through me.
Fuck.
What the hell is happening to me?
***
Later, after the fire burns lower and the night turns colder, I lie awake.
I should feel relieved that he’s finally asleep.
That he’s not trying to run.
That, at least for now, he’s staying.
But instead, all I feel is—
Restless.
Because every time I close my eyes, I think about the way his body felt under my hands.
The way his eyes lingered on me, like he saw something I wasn’t ready for him to see.
The way my heart betrayed me.
This is a mistake.
And yet, I can’t stop thinking about him.